


And I Will Watch You Go

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Degrading Memory, Dementia, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Red Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's leaving her, in a way. And she has to keep up with him until the last step - she has to keep stride, keep him company until there is nothing left to hold onto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. grey matter

He sits on the edge of the bed, frowning as she braids her still-damp hair.

“What are you thinking about, Varric?”

“Hm?” He blinks, offering up a slight smile. Despite it, he looks troubled. “Oh, you know me. Nothing important.”

She chuckles, pinning up the braid and turning back to the small mirror. “Keep your secrets, if you must. But you can tell me anything, you -”

“ _Seeker_.” He says the word with an inordinate amount of relief, the frown smoothing out.

She pauses, fingers slipping on the pin. “Varric?”

He hauls himself up from the bed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. It’s… fine. Just a headache.” Shuffling over, he drops a kiss on her head. “I didn’t sleep well.”

She watches him potter around the room, before returning to the task at hand, her mouth a thin worried line.

*

In the end they realise it is not the first time. And it will not be the last.

*

She perches on his desk as he rummages through his pack. “Can you pass me the... the thing. The thing, there.” He clicks his fingers, brow furrowing even further as he glares. “The _thing_. Come on.”

She picks up the manuscript. “This?”

“No, the – look, there, the thing!”

She rolls her eyes. “They are all things.”

He hauls himself out of his seat, stomping over to snatch up the small package on his desk. “For fuck's _sake_ , Seeker,” he snaps, “you don't have to be so immature!”

“How am I -”

“The package!” The word all but explodes from his lips, a hissed intake of breath following it. He stops, eyes closing. “Fuck.”

She reaches out, fingers light against his. “Varric, what's wrong?”

His hand closes around hers, a tightness that speaks volumes.

“I don't know.”

*

“His memory is… fragmenting,” explains Dorian. “I suspect the red lyrium exposure is to blame.”

“We should have realised this might be a problem,” admits Dagna, frowning. “With Bartrand's condition as bad as it was -”

Dagna and Dorian are in heated discussion over options, but all Cassandra hears is the one thing she could not bear. Life expectancy.

“He is your friend,” she murmurs, “not a… not a test subject.” She looks up at Dorian. “Help him. Please.”

He rests a light hand on her shoulder. “It’s not… it’s not that simple. We don’t have anything to go off. The only other person suffering even remotely similar symptoms was his brother, and not enough was documented for us to be able to action a care plan.”

“Dorian -”

“You're saying I'll turn into him.” Varric's voice is quiet, defeated. Cassandra's heart aches for him.

“Not necessarily!” Dagna hastens to add. “We know a lot more than those healers did, and we're still learning. You're in the best position you could be, right now!”

“But there's no way to fix me. I'll eventually lose it, right? I'll forget everything.” He closes his eyes, shaking his head. “One day I'll wake up and... nothing. I'll be like an empty shell.”

Cassandra wants to reach out to him, to comfort him. But Dorian's hand rests on his shoulder, and her own curls into a fist at her side.

“As if I would let you forget how much trouble you are,” she says finally. Words are his strength, not hers, and everything seems inadequate on her tongue.

But he manages a smile at that, eyes meeting hers.

“This _is_ manageable,” insists Dorian. “We won't let you fade into the night, my friend.”

Varric nods, though his usual brightness remains absent.

*

The night finds them in close quarters, lying face to face on her cot in the room above the forge, his hands cupping her face.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. “Maker, Cassandra, I'm sorry -”

“For what?” she whispers back. “You have done nothing wrong.”

“I've been so _angry_ with you -”

“Oh, Varric.” She smiles, soft and warm. “Do not dwell on that. Now we know. We understand. We can begin to work together on this.”

His fingers slide through her hair. “You don't have to -”

“If you finish that sentence, I will strangle you,” she murmurs darkly. “I am with you, Varric. I will not walk away from you, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.” Her own hand comes up to brush his cheek. “You will _never_ be alone. I promise you that.”

He stares up at her, searching her face for something as his own composure fractures. He clings to her, curling into the crook of her body as she holds him close, weak sobs and anguished whimpers as she murmurs soft promises, the storm of what was to come overpowering him.


	2. blue monday

“Seeker, where are my glasses?”

She does not look up from her book. “On your head, my love.”

He reaches for them, chuckling. “Thanks.” Adjusting them on his nose, he turns his attention to the manuscript. “You know, I’ve been thinking. I feel a lot better -”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“You were going to suggest accompanying me on my next mission.” She licks her thumb, turning the page. “To which my response remains… no.”

He groans, pushing his glasses up onto his head. “Come on, I’m fine!”

“Varric…”

“I’m not – shit, I’m not _useless_ -” His voice cracks, the tension from the past few weeks bubbling over.

She closes the book, looking up at him. “No, you are not. But what happens if you forget which pack your potions are in? What happens when you cannot recall how to reload Bianca? Varric, I love you. I cannot take the risk that you will – that you could -”

“Seeker, I’m – don’t even think about that.”

“How can I not?” She leans forward, eyes level with his. “I know you are frustrated with this. I know you want to be out there, guarding my back. I know you are still in control of your faculties, and I know you think this is me being overly cautious. And you will think that right up to the moment that you slip. That, my love, is why I will always say no.”

He stops for a long moment, staring at her – no, she realises, _through_ her. And then he starts, a slight twitch as he blinks. “Seeker… where are my glasses?”

She takes a deep breath, opening her book again. “On your head, my love.”

*

He is throwing things across the room again.

She approaches carefully – has learnt that his aim is not always deliberate. "Varric?"

"I can't - fuck, I can't remember where I was going with that idea!" His grip on the inkpot tightens, but he does not hurl it. Small mercies, she thinks, the stain on her arm still evident from last week despite scrubbing ferociously.

“For the latest chapter of Minrathous Nights?”

“Yeah, and I -”

She holds up a hand, smiling slightly. “You wanted to talk to Dorian regarding the accuracy of your... your...” She frowns, trying to remember the exact phrasing. “Impetuous slave-cum-freedom-fighter? You wanted to know how slaves were treated, because Fenris would not tell you.”

He mulls it over, nodding vaguely, and she watches his eyes with no small amount of concern – last time he had struggled, but it had come back to him. Today, she was not sure they would be so lucky.

She pushes on. “I took some notes, if it would help, but you did not make much progress. I think Dorian was, ah... indisposed.”

Varric's lips twist into a slight smile – the man's relationship with the Iron Bull was hardly new, but they appeared to be taking things rather seriously, and Varric had won quite a lot of coin for it.

“Tiny still owes me a drink,” he murmurs, and she has to restrain herself from letting out a sigh of relief as the look of familiarity comes back to his eyes. “Thanks, Seeker.”

She smiles. “What can I say? I am quite the fan.”

He picks up her notes, and she does not miss the way his eyes bore into the page, the slight smile fading.

*

In the dark, it is easier to confess his fears. He still cannot put them into words, not really, but the way his fingers trail over her knuckles speaks more than they could ever say.

“Seeker?”

She rubs at her eyes, rolling over to face him. “Mm?”

“Help me.”

She frames his face with her hands, kissing the tear tracks. “Always,” she whispers.

*

His papers were in a fair state before, but she brings order into his chaos as she has always done.

“This is from Hard in Hightown,” he murmurs, leaning over the desk and gesturing. “Anything that refers to the Carta goes with it. I meant to finish it.”

“You still can,” she points out, picking up another sheet of vellum and stacking the set. “All is not yet lost.”

His mouth is a thin line as he nods. She hates the expression on his face.

“What is this? A letter?”

“To Hawke. I never worked out how to tell her about all this.”

“I could -”

“No.” He kisses her temple, crossing over to sit on the bed. “She should hear it from me.”

She keeps working late into the afternoon, putting together projects into bundles. It amazes her how thorough his notes are – were, she adds mentally, eyes dancing over the more recent documentation. He sleeps, fitful and fleeting.

By the time the sun is low in the sky, his desk is a picture of neatness, and she has long since given up collating in favour of reading.

“Spoilers,” rumbles a husky voice by her ear, and she jumps at the noise. Varric chuckles as she shoots him a glare. “You didn't have to do all this,” he adds.

“I wanted to. It was a lot more relaxing than my usual paperwork.” She stretches, her back aching. “You have a lot of books to work on.”

“Well, since a certain someone revitalised the romance series, and a certain other someone defeated an Elder God, I've had a lot more material than usual.” He picks up the stack for the latter, frowning slightly as he leans against the desk. “I really should work on this. Someone else might pick it up in the meantime.”

“They would not dare,” she says with a smirk. “Your editor would kill them.”

“She really would. I feel like you two would get along.” He stops for a moment, considering. “You should write to her. Let her know the situation. You might need to pass on things when I get worse.”

“Varric -”

“What? No point pretending, is there? I'm gonna get worse.” The defeat in his eyes is heartbreaking. “I might never finish half of these.”

She reaches up to cup his cheek. “Stop it,” she says softly. “What good does such talk bring?”

“Seeker -”

“I know this as well as you do, but – no, you cannot just give up. I will not allow it.” She straightens in his chair, cracking her knuckles. “I will help finish these books.”

He smiles slightly. “You said yourself you're a terrible writer.”

“I do not have to be good. I need only be efficient. You can build on my structures, make it a real story.” Pulling the papers from his hands, she smiles slightly. “Besides, this story is one I know.”


	3. seeing red

Her mind is made up fairly quickly, but it is a month before she can summon the right words.

“Varric?”

“Mm?” He looks up, frowning slightly as she kneels in front of him. “What are you doing?”

“Varric, I have had a lot of time to consider how best to say this. I thought what you might say, in my position. You are so much better with words than I, after all.” She smiles, taking his hand. “But I am not you. I could not pluck the words from thin air to make you swoon and sigh. I am direct, unyielding in my attack. And thus I must be in this.”

“In what?”

"I want to marry you," she says, squeezing his hand tightly. "Varric, I -"

He stares at her, the colour draining from his face. "No."

"- what?"

"No." He pulls his hand free of her grip, looking away. "I... I can't, Seeker. I can't marry you."

Her chest tightens, her stomach dropping. "Varric?"

"I _won't_ marry you. I won't - just... just get out of here, alright? I'm not that guy."

"Varric, I -"

" _Get out_ , Seeker."

She hesitates, one hand reaching out to touch his shoulder, but she stops just short, fingers curling around nothing. "I... I love you," she whispers, before pulling back and retreating out of the room entirely. She does not hear the door slam, the roar he lets out - her ears are filled only with her own footsteps and the shattering of her heart.

*

Reason returns and her feet bring her home to his door.

She does not knock – does not need to, slipping in quietly to find the room turned upside down. His manuscript litters the floor, ink prints on the wood and desk upturned. But her eyes find Varric.

He sits at the end of his bed, head in hands. "I can't - I _can't_ put you through this. I can't, Cassandra."

"Oh, Varric..." She crosses the room to him, kneeling before him as she had hours before.

"I saw... I saw what this did to Bartrand. I couldn't stand to look at him. I sent him away, made him someone else's problem. I won't - shit, Seeker, I won't be your problem, not like this. If you're going to hate me, it should be for something I did with all my faculties, not -"

"Varric, do you remember when we first met?" Her voice is soft, her hands pulling his away from his face. "I was the Right Hand, searching for the Champion, and you were an insufferable dwarf who would bend the truth at every turn." She lifts his chin, meeting his eyes. "Do I have to stab another book to make you understand how serious I am?"

"Seeker, don't -"

"I _love_ you. And I would trade a thousand days of sorrow for one _single_ moment of happiness with you." She smiles, a wavering curve of the lips as his own part in surprise. "But I hope that there will be much more joy in our lives than that."

His hand comes up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing over her scar. "Cassandra..."

"Whether you like it or not, I am not going anywhere, married or otherwise. I am yours, and I will not be parted from you."

“You could have a life,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “You could have a full life with someone else.”

"I would be your wife," she whispers. "I would be loved by a man who has my heart."

He pulls her in close, forehead resting against hers. "I'm sorry. Maker, I'm _so_ sorry, I just wanted -"

"Would you have me, my love?"

Varric takes a deep breath, and she can feel him trembling slightly. Her fingers thread through his hair as she presses soft kisses to his cheek. He chuckles weakly, and she smiles as his lips find hers.

"I would be honoured,” he says softly, “to become Varric Pentaghast."

She nudges him, laughing. "You ass."

"Should I ask Curly for permission? Get Ruffles to announce it from the battlements? Do I have to adopt any of your other names?"

She pushes him back against the bed, laugh clear and sweet. "Do not mock me, dwarf!"

"I'm just saying, Varric Allegra rolls off the tongue quite nicely."

She pulls herself up, hands either side of his head as she swoops down to kiss him. "Varric Filomena does not have quite the same ring to it," she admits.

His hands come up to stroke her waist. "Varric Calogera. No, that's too much like Caridin." He smiles up at her. "I'll stick with just Varric."

"I would not have you any other way," she murmurs. "Just do not try and send me from your side again."

He hesitates for a moment, before assenting. "Suppose it'd be bad form to banish my wife."

Her forehead resting against his, she smiles. " _Wife._ I like the sound of that."

*

In the end she finds them a hovel in the Marches. Kirkwall was not terribly far away, and the ocean breeze was nice. But the solitude draws her in, letting her cope with their new situation as best she could.

As best they both could.

“I'm carrying you across the threshold, Seeker!”

“You are _not_ , do not be ridiculous.”

“Come here, wife!”

“Varric!” She lets out an undignified squeal as he sidesteps her and bundles her up in his arms, legs kicking ineffectually. “Put me down!”

He grins, pulling her in close. “Sure thing. On the other side of the door. Don't worry, I've got you.”

“Varric!” But she is laughing as he shuffles through the doorway, inching her past the frame carefully before standing proud inside their home.

_Our home_. Her heart soars, and she tugs at him, pressing her lips to his.

“See?” he murmurs. “I've got you.”

“Yes, you do.” She smiles up at him, fingers light as she brushes a loose strand of hair from his face.

He rests his forehead against hers. “Where do you want to be put down? Here? Kitchen? Bed-”

“Bedroom,” she says with a soft laugh. “We really ought to, after all.”

“Oh, so this is just obligatory sex?”

“Of course. We must get it out of the way before the real fun can begin.”

He laughs, kissing her soundly. “I like the way you think...”


	4. green fingers

The worst days are the days when he remembers her sins.

“Come to threaten me with another book stabbing?” he drawls. Her fingers tighten around the drawer handles, but she stays quiet. She has learned how few things would convince him of the truth.

His mood does not lift much, on these days, until the fog does. Then he comes to her, heart full and eyes soft and she takes a deep breath before her own smile comes to light. It is not his fault, she knows – oh, she knows, truly. But it is tiring, at times. The smiles are harder to summon after a long week.

*

The garden becomes her refuge.

The ground had been hard and cold when they had first moved in, but on his more turbulent days she had ended up taking herself outside and tending to the soil – idleness did not sit well with her. By the end of the season, the seeds begin to sprout.

She likes to watch new things grow.

*

He never quite forgets her, not really. Some days she is Cassandra, other days she is Alessandra the shield-maiden, from the books he wrote for her. One bright blustery morning she is nameless, but he squeezes her fingers with great familiarity, and that is enough.

*

She is sitting in the garden when he comes to her.

“Seeker?”

“Varric? Is everything alright?” She is half-out of the chair before he can wave her back down, shuffling over and joining her in the weak sun.

“No. But then again, it hasn’t been for a long time, has it?” And he takes her hand, a mournful look in his wonderfully-clear eyes, and she can barely hold back the tears for this gift, this one lucid day.

“It is not your fault,” she promises.

“I should have been more careful. I saw what happened to Bartrand, I should have -”

“Varric, what happened does not change anything. You are still you -”

“Yeah, right now. But what about next week? Tomorrow? Hell, later today I might not remember you at all. I can’t – Seeker, I can’t do this to you.”

She smiles, pulling their linked fingers to her lips. “You are not getting rid of me,” she warns him.

“Cassandra -”

“I love you. I love you and I married you knowing what was coming, and I am not going to leave you, no matter what happens.” There is an edge to her voice now, hardened by the days he has not known her face. “You said you would not send me away. Do not test me now. Do not dare.”

He brushes her cheek with his thumb. “Damn you,” he murmurs, though there is no bite to it. “You deserve better than this. You deserve so much better.”

“Do not undersell yourself, my love.” She leans into his touch. “Do you remember that first night, at Skyhold? You took my hand, allayed my worries.” She smiles. “When you look at me, I feel that first flutter of anticipation all over again.”

“Romantic.”

“Varric… kiss me. Kiss me like you want -” But the rest of the words are lost as he pulls her forward, lips crashing together with a throaty moan.

He pulls away, panting slightly. “Bedroom, wife. Now.”

“Varric -”

“Don’t make me carry you,” he warns, a teasing tone to his voice.

“But you’re -”

“Seeker, damnit, let me have this. Let me give you this whilst I still can.”

She hesitates for a moment, the pain in his eyes evident. She did not doubt there would be other days, lazy days of lovemaking, desperate fumbles between the sheets and passionate embraces in the early morning light, but there was a sadness to his expression that gave her pause. She crawls into his lap, fingers nimble on his shirt. “Here,” she murmurs, “we do it here.”

“Kinky,” he grins, nipping at her skin. “But I'm far too old to make love in a garden chair."

"You are, as they say," she points out with a laugh, "as old as you feel. And you feel wonderful," she adds, running her hands across his broad shoulders.

He grabs her waist, hoisting her up and over his shoulder as he rises from the chair, unmindful of her shriek as he lightly spanks her. "Maker, I love you."

"Put me down!" But there is little heat to the cry as she laughs, carried back into the house by her doting husband.

*

He makes long, slow love to her, and in the afterglow she watches him trace endless shapes against her skin.

“I love you,” she murmurs. He smiles, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“I have never doubted that for a moment. I'm a lucky man.”

“And I a lucky wife.”

His smile fades slightly. “Will you promise me something, Seeker? Promise me you'll take some time for yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you've been looking after me for months. You never take a break. You need to.”

She stills his hand, linking her fingers with his. “Varric -”

“I'm serious. I can't lose you to this as well as myself.”

She kisses his knuckles. “You speak as if it is a chore -”

“ _Cassandra_.”

She closes her eyes. “It is not,” she says softly.

“I can see in your eyes how much it takes,” he murmurs. “I'm not asking you to walk away -”

“You dare -”

“- just take a day off. Please.” He looks up at her, eyes entreating.

She smiles weakly, the expression slow to come after a long week. “I will consider it.”

*

She lets Merrill take her into the city for the afternoon. Hawke promises to look after Varric.

Merrill shows her the new Chantry – a less grand affair, but the elf likes the gardens and Cassandra has to agree. There is something calming about the small glade in the middle of the new buildings – the Maker's hand amid the chaos.

The city is rebuilding, slowly but surely. The Inquisition had lent a hand, after their Seeker and their storyteller had relocated there, and what was once the Hanged Man reopens as the Reprieve – she stops in to buy Varric a bottle of whiskey.

It is a good afternoon.

*

She comes home to find the garden half-destroyed, and Varric swearing up a storm as Hawke apologises about the tulips.

“Is he – is he like this often?” she asks. “I've never... not in all the years I've known him...”

Cassandra takes her hand, squeezing it softly. “If he could recall it later, he would be sorry,” she says simply.

“I know.”

“Good. Please, never forget that.”


	5. white space

She is folding clothes when he stumbles out of the bedroom, staring at her with a strange look in his eyes. “Are you -”

And then she stops, the realisation hitting her with full force. _Oh_. Her chest constricts, the air suddenly thin.

He grimaces, looking somewhat apologetic. “Uhh… sorry, but I -”

“Hi,” she whispers, managing a smile despite the waver in her voice. She clears her throat. “Varric, right?”

“Yeah…?”

“My name is Cassandra. Your friend Hawke said you might be a bit confused, but she brought you here.” The lie is easy, too easy, and it crushes her heart like a vice. “She stepped out for a moment, but she said she would be back soon.”

He sizes her up for a moment before relaxing slightly. “Any friend of Hawke’s is a friend of mine. Do you, ah… do you know what happened?”

“She said you hit your head, but not how, I am afraid.”

“Huh.” He grins, that familiar twist of lips, and she turns away, the tears forming in her eyes.

“There is tea, if you are thirsty.”

“I’m good. Might just go and lie down again, actually. But thanks, Legs,” he adds, turning away. “Tell Hawke I owe her one, alright?” And he shuffles back into the bedroom, door closing behind him.

She manages to wait until she has stepped out into the garden before she breaks down, silent sobs that ache as she slides down the wall.

_No. No, not like this._

*

Mercifully, he is not in short supply of visitors. His favourite is Hawke. He never forgets her.

Cassandra is glad of these moments. He seems happy.

*

He comes back to her less frequently, slipping through the cracks like sand. Less and less of the man she had fallen in love with remains.

She is getting to be very good at lying.

*

"Are you the new nurse?" he asks, fingers light on her wrist. "Only I think... well, I think my mother's been moved, and I'm not sure _where._ "

It takes her a moment to get her bearings on this one - much further back in his memories than she had known. His mother...? Ah. She assumes a soft smile.

"Ilsa Tethras?" At his nod, she gestures for him to follow her into the garden. "The senior physician wanted to have a brief chat with her about her stay with us. They will not be long. And... yes, I am new."

He smiles slightly. "Okay. Thanks, miss - ah, what was it?"

"Nurse Pentaghast."

"Like the dragonslayers, right?"

"I - yes, like the dragonslayers." She leads him to the chairs, motioning for him to sit. "If you like, I can fetch you once your mother is back."

"Naah, I've got to finish this last chapter anyway." He holds up a sheaf of papers, the ink smudging still against his fingers. "Must have left the rest of it at home."

"Oh?" She hesitates for a moment. "You... you write?"

"Yeah. Well, nothing ground-breaking. This one's just for her. She, ah..." He stops for a moment, and there is a strange look in his eyes. "She likes it, I guess, and that's good enough."

She crouches beside him. “Master Tethras, I am sure she _loves_ it. You are her son, after all.”

He fixes her with a look, unsteady and small. She is struck by his hesitance, his unease. It is a Varric she had never known. She wonders how long it took him to build his armour of charisma.

“That's not really how it works with us,” he admits quietly.

*

She rises early, tending to the house with silent practised steps. These quiet times are becoming longer and longer – times without even the presence of him to connect to. She fears for the days when he is -

_No._ Best not think about that.

She cleans the kitchen, her cup of tea cooling on the side as she slips back through the house to check on her husband, pleasantly surprised to find him lucid.

"Seeker," he mumbles through sleepy lips, and she smiles at the endearment as his hand reaches out to her. "Come back to bed."

"I have to -"

His fingers catch on the edge of her sleeve and he rolls slightly, pulling sharply. It is enough to catch her off-balance, enough for him to grab her arm and pull her back down onto the bed with a chuckle as she gasps. His arms bundle her into his side, a soft kiss against her cheek.

"It can wait," he murmurs. "Let me have a moment with my wife."

It is hard to disagree with him, her hand curling against his chest as she wraps around him. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Well, you have time to rest now. Hawke is coming over, but not until later."

"She is?"

"She is visiting the city this week, giving a donation from Starkhaven. She did not mention it when she last came."

"Mm. Good kid."

Her head rests in the crook of his neck, his pulse throbbing steadily against her temple. "You are warm. Are you sure you are feeling alright?"

"Well enough," he promises, one hand coming up to stroke her cheek. "What about you?"

"Me? I am always fine."

"Seeker..."

She kisses his collarbone. "I have missed you," she admits quietly, feeling his arms tighten around her. "It has been some time since we last spoke like this."

"I'm sor-"

She puts a hand to his lips as she shushes him, fingers trailing across his jaw. "Just let it be, Varric. I am glad of the moment."

He smiles, pressing a kiss to her palm. “So am I, wife.”

*

It is evening when she wakes up, the sun dancing on the horizon and warming her skin. Her mind skips back a few hours – they had fallen asleep together, a rare moment of peace. He had talked to her about the feel of her skin, how he could never forget the trace of her scars. She had buried her face in the crook of his neck, content to just be with the man she loved. Soft kisses, traded without expectation, and a warmth that had suffused into their bones that spoke of enduring love. It had been a good day, all in all.

She sits up, stretching, before turning to watch him. She should probably wake him, even if -

Her heart stops.

“Varric?”

His eyes are closed, the track of a long-dried teardrop still evident on his cheek.

“Varric?”

Her hand moves lightly over his cheek – too still, too cool. Her fingers brush soft hair from his face, a sharp breath escaping her.

“ _Oh._ ”


	6. fade to black

The front door slams shut. Cassandra barely registers the noise, hand light on Varric's cheek.

"Cassandra? Sorry I'm late," calls Hawke, the sound of the woman shedding layers as she pads through the house quietly. "I had to stop by and check on -"

"In here." Her voice is barely above a whisper, but Hawke catches it all the same, pushing the bedroom door open.

"Sorry. Is he asleep?" she whispers.

Cassandra shakes her head. "He..." The words fail her for a moment, and the woman approaches the bed slowly, sitting by his free side as the realisation hits home. "He simply fell asleep, and did not wake."

Hawke takes his hand in hers, pressing a kiss to cooling knuckles. "Oh, Varric. Oh, my friend, I'm so sorry."

"What do I do now? I have not - I mean, I have not had to prepare for this before. Do I need to find a Sister?"

"When you're ready to. But you, ah... you should take some time, Cassandra. I know Varric wasn't really here much anymore, but -"

The Seeker shakes her head again. "No, he was here. This morning, we... we spoke of many wonderful things." Her eyes close as she strokes his cheek. "It was a good morning. I had my husband beside me.”

Hawke takes a shaky breath. “Oh, Cass.”

She manages a slight smile, looking up at the Champion. “It is alright. He is with the Maker now.”

Her chest is tight at the idea. It is not as comforting as she thought it might be.

*

Cassandra finds the letter the next day, after the Sisters come for him. She knew he had arranged a will, but could not recall if he had left it in the right drawer.

The letter sits atop the official document, and she unfolds it with care as she reads.

_Seeker,_

_My wife. Maker only knows I am the luckiest son of a bitch to have known you, never mind to have loved you - and I do love you, Seeker. Please never doubt that I love you with all of my heart._

_Now, I know I should be noble and tell you to move on after I'm gone, but right now I can't say that. Of course I want you to be happy, of course I want you to be loved. I want that more than anything. But I wanted more than anything to be the one who gave you that, and – I know you'd argue every time that I did, that we were good. Maker, were we ever. But I'll always wonder._

_There have been times when I've woken up with no memory of the week, and it's been hard. But then I look at you, and I realise it must be impossible for you - powerless to help. I know how much idleness frustrates you. And It's damned unfair that we've been robbed of a full and happy life together - but when I am free and gone, you will still deserve more than a measure of happiness._

_Whenever it happens, please don't worry about me. I'm fairly sure I've done enough to fight for my right to stick it out at the Maker's side. I mean, come on – we beat Corypheus, that's gotta count, right? So don't try any noble bullshit and pine for me. Don't you dare hide away from the world, Seeker - I might not be in the Fade but I'll make damned sure to haunt your ass if you build a wall to keep everyone out._

_You are a treasure, Cassandra, and I will always love you. Go and find some light in your life._

_Your loving husband,_

_-V.T._

She sinks into the chair. Her hand curls around the letter, her eyes closing as the tears come, finally.

"You are set free, and yet - Maker, my _heart_..."

She can almost feel his hands on her shoulders, the breath on the back of her neck as he chuckles. She wants him back - has wanted him back and whole and healthy ever since that dreary day in Skyhold when the world felt so infinitely smaller. But his total absence hollows her in a way she had not felt in a very long time.

*

It is two days before she comes to the house, and Cassandra presses an envelope on her as they share a mug of wine. "He wrote to you, but I never managed to send it. Never enough time. I'm sorry."

“Thank you.” She does not quite meet her eyes. “Was he... in pain?”

“He slept. A soft ending to a wonderful story.”

“He would have written it better,” Bianca murmurs, and Cassandra holds her hand in the quiet evening.

*

Hawke is a rock. Cassandra is beginning to understand the power of the Champion.

"It's okay to feel happy that his suffering is over."

“I know.” And she does, despite the grief. She leans back in the chair – his chair. She can feel the last of him clinging on here, the faint smell of good whiskey and expensive ink and that light spiced fragrance that was entirely him. One day the chair would just be a chair, but right now it is hearth and home in a way she cannot bear to give up.

Hawke reaches for her hand. “I just wish -”

“I know.” Voice quieter now. “So do I.”

*

The funeral is small, quiet. Just him and her and Hawke, and the fire and earth to claim him. He had requested his own memorial.

"Varric of House Tethras. Husband, Friend, Storyteller. Hero of the Dragon Age. Through the pages of my writing, may you find your chosen truths." Hawke smiles. "You changed it."

Cassandra's smile is gentle. "He _was_ a hero. He would deny it at every turn, but he truly was the greatest of us all."

"Isabela should be around next week. I was thinking we could set up a game of Wicked Grace."

"I think that would be good. Perhaps at the Reprieve?"

"I'll summon the gang. Maybe the Inquisitor will make it too."

Cassandra nods, hesitating a moment before leaning into the woman, head resting against hers. "He loved you very much. Please remember that, Hawke."

Hawke's arm wraps around the Seeker, a soft kiss to her temple. "He loved you with every fibre of his being, Cassandra. And he always will."

The sun warms her skin as the words warm her heart, and Cassandra Tethras-Pentaghast breathes deep, spirit light. "And I him. Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Orillia and Satine68 and weatheredlaw, who put up with my mood swings and were patient with me, thank you.
> 
> My granddad never wrote a book in his life, but he was an amazing storyteller. And his Alzheimer's went undiagnosed for a long time, and I was angry and short with him, and I can never undo that. I can never take back those days, and I can never tell him how sorry I am. And then the world lost Sir Terry Pratchett, and I lost a man whose writing affected me profoundly. And I was changed once more.
> 
> This story is an apology, a desperate hope and a love letter to the stories that never get written - the stories that don't get happy endings, the people who deserve better. There's a very good chance that my fate is in here, and I hope when that time comes that my Seeker is this patient with me.
> 
> Thanks for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [turning into dust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4717670) by [weatheredlaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw)




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